"What in the name of idiocy does this mean?" he cried wonderingly. "Who is he? What the devil is he up to? Where's Rice?"
Turk, who in his struggle with his bonds had fallen forward, wriggled over and got his back again to his tree. The eyes turned upon his employer were eyes to measure a man, taking careful stock of him.
"I didn't think you could do it, Steele," he remarked gravely. "Not that-away, with your hands, jus' one wallop. Why, that's Johnnie Thorp, that's who it is!"
"Who's he?" demanded Steele curtly.
"He's the secon' best scrapper this side of hell," grunted Turk. "He figgered he was the firs' until jus' now, I reckon. Now, if you'll grab these ropes off'n me, I'll go slap 'em on him. … Look out!"
Johnnie Thorp, enraged, weak from the blow in his face, but not yet accounting himself beaten, was on his knees, his hands groping for the rifle in the grass. Steele swept it away from his clutching fingers, thrusting the man back.
"Damn you," muttered Thorp.
"A man like you, from the looks of you," returned Steele in hot contempt, "ought to be big enough to depend on his hands and leave this sort of sneaking gun play to the indoor sports. Now, stand up if you like and get your wind and I'll knock the eternal daylight out of you."
"Don't you do it, Steele!" warned Turk eagerly. "They'll get you if you do. There's two more of 'em, down trail a bit, waitin' for you to come in that away. Turn me loose, can't you?"
